


Sad Drunk, Clever Magister

by HollowPhoenix



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Sappy Ending, im trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowPhoenix/pseuds/HollowPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elf is a lightweight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sad Drunk, Clever Magister

The bar was crowded at such an hour, bards' fingers sore and calloused, the smell of sweat and booze radiating against the walls, and the mutter of a hundred voices trying to tell meaningless, drunk stories all at once to one another.

And then there was the Inquisitor. The poor Dalish elf with a bad taste for wines sitting at a bar stool with his head deep in his cup, West Hill Brandy burning inside his throat. He knew it, plain and simple—he fucked up. And he wanted to forget that he had absolutely one-hundred percent gone against his clan in doing what he did. Then he remembered that he was a sad drunk, but was too far into the bottle to stop now. His heart pounded and his hands weakened as he remembered how his knees had become liquid when he kissed him, how his head swam and set off stars when he realized he was kissing back and a firm hand was gently slipping around his waist.

Elgar'nan, he hadn't wanted it to end, ever. And that was the worst part. The fact that the whole company at the library had seen it happen was almost as bad. He noticed his tankard was running empty again and he called for another. He needed to be more than tipsy. He needed to be wasted, he needed to forget it.

"Haven't you had two already, Inquisitor?" Asked the barkeep.

"I- yes."

"I don't know if I want you drunk in my tavern. You're too important to make a fool of yourself."

"I'll be fine," he said as he tried not to stumble over his words. "Please."

He watched the dwarf behind the counter sigh and fill the cup to the brim yet again; he felt his stomach turn and his nose already began to reject the alcohol, but he ignored it, because he _couldn't_ love a shem. He couldn't.

People were still pouring into the tavern by the hour, and with each drink he remembered less and less of them. Krem was standing on an obviously unstable chair in the corner, an arm wrapped around one of Iron Bull's horns to keep himself balanced. The Inquisitor could have sworn he saw Cassandra sneak upstairs where it was quieter with a book and a bottle of beer, but no, it couldn't be her. He could _hear_ Sera telling a story about bandits while she probably made a vulgar motion with both of her hands, and he didn't care to turn around to confirm. He rested his head atop the bar counter, ruby locks spilling over the edge of it. He could hear his heart thudding in his head and he felt sick. He hoped the regret of drinking too much would be what made him forget, but as soon as he felt the alcohol settle into his stomach and the warmth overcame him, preparing him for what would be inevitable and uncomfortable sleep, something startled him.

"Evening, Sun Blonde Vint, please. Need to be flustered. It's been that sort of day."

"We're out."

"Out? I thought this was the _Inquisition!_ Do we spare such an expense? Ah. Pour me the next strongest thing."

Oh, by the grace of Mythal, _no_. This is just what he needed. He dreaded the moment he would be discovered, disheveled and filthy, his hair sticking to his face and his eyes glassy.

"Inquisitor, interesting to see you here, I didn't think the Dalish believed in heavy drinking."

At this moment the Inquisitor realized there was no getting out of this. He sniffed and ran a hand through his hair in hopes to straighten it. "They don't."

"Then you're a rule breaker. I'm quite mesmerized by specific redhead elves who are excellent at breaking rules." The mage said playfully.

Lavellan eyed his half-empty tankard and began to feel queasy again. He felt that same gentle touch on his shoulder and he tensed under it. Muted hazel eyes staring a far too concerned hole in his face. "If I knew any better, I'd understand you've had a bit too much to drink."

He swallowed hard.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have popped the cork on that wine," The mage said to the barkeeper, "it seems I'm going to have to put my personal destitution on hold."

"Your.. what?" Asked Lavellan.

"I'm going to play the responsible companion and bring you up to your quarters."

"No.. No I don't need it. I'm going-I'm-I'll be fine." The last thing he needed was to be drunk with this Tevinter mage inside his quarters. But he knew if he moved he would stumble, and if he stumbled, the man would be right. He couldn’t be right. He was stiff in his seat, hoping the mage would move on from him and get drunk enough to forget he was there. He groaned.

"Inquisitor, please. I am doing nothing more than offering a hand."

Of course, Lavellan took the offer, but he was humiliated in doing so. He hopped off the bar stool and felt a strong arm lace around his waist and another steady his own arm upon the mage's shoulder. The exit door was opened by Sera, who made a pun about 'popping corks' on the way out, and the Inquisitor heard Dorian audibly tell her to shush.

***

The silence of the night outside the bar was settling and the air played well in his nostrils and aided his sick gut, but it was easily overshadowed in comparison to his own bed and a warm fire, as well as Dorian's hand over his forehead as Lavellan whispered drunk stories to him.

"Why don't you tell me the story behind a Dalish elf getting drunk off his ass in the early hours of the morning instead?"

He grunted. "He was upset about… personal.. stuff. And things." _Too drunk, Sarrahel. Too drunk._

"He has a lot of 'stuff and things' to be upset about at the moment, you know."

"No— I- He can't tell you."

"I disagree. He can tell me anything he'd like; I'm terribly proficient at keeping secrets."

The mage's fingers ran through the Inquisitor's hair, and just for a moment, he'd almost let it slip.

"Stop that."

"Stop what? I thought you were comfortable."

"I am.. I am."

Maker, he'd give anything to feel those lips once more. Just once more. Anything to be braver— anything to be sober. The fingers left his hair upon his request, and he almost moaned in irritation at himself. He could imagine how repulsive he appeared, he could feel the sweat on his brow and his heavy eyes threatening to fall out of his head at any given moment.

"I'd advise you eat bread. It'll sober you."

"That's a wives' tale. Tell me, when are you applying for the position of Inquisitor's Mother?"

"Not very soon, I'd hope. Not even Orlesians approve of "interactions" between family. Not openly, anyways."

The Inquisitor wrinkled his nose and grinned. _Too drunk,_ he reminded himself again. "'Interactions..' Heh, you think we'll keep.. 'interacting'? Dorian?"

"I…" He saw Dorian's expression falter just a bit. "…did you not?"

It boiled down to this, then. _Yes. Oh, Maker, yes, I did… I do. Please kiss me again. One more time, Dorian. One more time._

But all that left his lips was "…Dorian."

"No, no, it's alright. Quite immature of me, in fact, to think that we would continue. How foolish… I'll have to tell the barkeep to restock on that Blonde Vint, yes?"

_No. I want this, I want you._

"No."

"Blonde Vint isn't that tough. Now, _Dragon Piss_ is a different animal. Take that from an alcoholic."

" _No_ , Dorian." He said firmly as he sat up and propped himself on his elbows. The alcohol was still burning inside his nose and tingling in his head, and the intoxication he felt so thoroughly throughout himself led him to believe that what he was about to do was absolutely the correct decision.

The mage had quieted himself under the hard tension building in the room, knowing precisely what he wanted at this moment, but dared not proceed forward with it.

Lavellan draped a hand over Dorian's shoulder, sliding it over his exposed skin, arranging it clumsily at his neck to grip at the back of it and give him a gentle pull downwards to kiss his alcohol-stained lips.

 _Finally_.

The mage reciprocated quickly, and the Inquisitor wondered silently if Dorian had seen this coming beforehand. He wondered if he'd seen the give in his expression at the bar. But that was unimportant now as Dorian's lips shushed his own in his drunken state. Soon he found the other's body atop his with his hands back in his hair, this time aggressively tangling each finger between red locks in an attempt to pull him closer. Lavellan felt a warm hand slide under his pajama shirt and he arched his back to push into Dorian's palm as it traveled the span of his torso. The fabric of his clothes curled underneath him as the mage pulled it up further to get a finer glimpse of his body. His cheeks turned pink under Dorian's amative touches and his eyes caught glimpse of his face. Dark brown hair messy, strands out of place. Dark circles. He'd been drinking before he came to the tavern. It wasn’t enough.

 One of the elf's pale hands palpated over the mage's chest and they took each other in for a moment; silently, hushed.

Dorian was waiting for something. For encouragement, perhaps?

_Elgar'nan, please. Don't wait._

An intimate, almost possessive kiss was pressed into his neck, leaving a purple bruise as time allowed it to settle. Now, _there_ was a scandal in the making.

Warm breath ghosted along his skin and the light prickle of whiskers itched his jaw as Dorian flattered every inch of visible skin with soft touches and kisses. It was worship in its most personal, most refined form; the only worship, the Inquisitor decided, he did not mind. His breath quickened as he turned his head and was greeted by a tender kiss behind his ear. He exhaled and could feel Dorian's lips upon his own yet again, a wet tongue impatiently –though only momentarily– rested against his mouth. One of his hands found its way to the back of the mage's head as he eagerly parted his lips and allowed Dorian to explore past his teeth. He only took the invitation only for a quick moment before he took his tongue to other places, dragging it along Lavellan's neck in order to earn a quiet sigh. The Inquisitor's fingers laced into Dorian's belt loops, tugging at them and hoping to hint to him that he wanted his clothes entirely off and on his floor. _Too drunk, Sarrahel._

Instead, a deciding pause.

"What is it..?" He inquired breathlessly.

"You may not want me in the morning."

"Dorian.." _I will. Gods, I will._ "Don't worry."

Dorian seemed blank, perhaps becoming indecisive in his thoughts for a moment. His expression gave again just then, but this time in a way that made Lavellan's heart beat just a bit faster. Suddenly soft lips were pressing heavily into his neck yet again, and his shirt was riding further up, curling above his chest. Skilled hands on his waist, a knee resting between his legs. _Oh, fuck._

His drunk, half-unsure self gave way to an even more drunk, but entirely certain personality that initiated a hot kiss to Dorian's lips. His torso began to rise off of the mattress to pull himself nearer to the mage, his arms wrapping around his neck to deepen their kiss. Just then the kiss was broken, Dorian telling Lavellan with lovesick eyes that the elf _wouldn't_ be on top. Not quite yet. Acceptance of this was quick and inviting, and it drove him wild. He pushed the mage away just a moment to remove everything but his underthings–and Dorian did the same.

There they were, both nearly naked, one underneath the other, and.. _Oh._

Lavellan's breath caught in his throat as his pale eyes traversed strong shoulders and a muscular torso, his right hand resting on Dorian's waist just to confirm that _yes, this is real._

To be honest, he was nervous. Inside his clan, elves remained pure until marriage. It was a custom they hadn't broken -supposedly- for years. But all these kisses and the soft suckling on his neck were leaving him regretless. Dorian's skin against his sent a shiver up his spine and his arousal had begun to swell between his legs. Suggestive eyes flicked up to meet his gaze in a knowing way as a smirk played across the mage's lips. A gentle hand grazed his torso as it found its way into his undergarments; the elf went red and released a vehement moan at the contact. He bit his lip to remain silent as Dorian began to lightly stroke him, that smirk still unmoving on his face. His back arched into the touch, precum already starting to spill from his cock. The fervent gaze of Dorian's eyes upon his expression left him a mess, and he begged for his blissful release to not arrive so hastily.

"Please… Dorian."

The shaky whisper of his name made the mage shiver. He tugged down his own underthings, leaving him entirely naked before the elf. He was eager, spitting into his hand and lubricating his cock with it. His body pressed against his lover's again, Lavellan's chest rising and falling underneath him. His heart thudded as he felt a pair of supple thighs press against his hips, drawing him even closer to the elf beneath him. Those green eyes were provocative; willing. And so was Dorian. He entered him slowly, gently, earning a silent gasp of something elven. It was warm around him, constricting him in just the right way. His fingers intertwined with Lavellan's and he felt the elf's grip become tighter and tighter with each movement, pushing Dorian further into him. The mage pressed love marks into his pale skin as he began a gentle rhythm, each inward thrust eliciting moans from Lavellan's mouth. He could almost hear the elf's heartbeat as he pressed his face against his. Soft, breathy murmurs of his name were painted into his neck as Lavellan sighed underneath him.

Dorian's rhythm quickened as Lavellan's hips rocked against him, a gentle hand forgotten on his neck. Green eyes stared up into his face, lips parted slightly as gentle moans escaped him. Maker, it was so good. _So good._ Lavellan's hands palmed at the bed sheets beneath him.

He could feel Dorian unraveling above him. He could feel the possessive grip on his thigh and yet hear the tender moans against his skin. His head became blank and he had nothing more than the primal urge to touch and be touched. The smell of sex was fervent around him, and he was beginning to not care about who might be watching –for he hadn't locked the door when he entered.–

Vulgar words and commands tumbled from his lips in breathy whispers. He could feel Dorian's pelvis against the back of his legs and raked his fingernails over his back. He'd lost count of the number of times "oh fuck" had left his mouth. He could feel his body tensing and his arms felt almost as if they were aching with the pleasure that rushed through every part of himself. He roughly moaned a warning of "Dorian, Dorian, I'm gonna.." and interrupted himself with his own climax. He did not recall there ever being a time before that he made so much noise. He clung to Dorian, his legs elevated on either side of his waist. Half moons were indented along the mage's back from Lavellan's tightened grip when he came. The elf shook. He _actually_ shook. It was only afterwards that he realized they had received release at the same time. How storybook; Varric would go to town with this.

Dorian laid on top of him for only enough time to regain his composure, then removed himself from the bed and began to gather his clothes from the floor. Lavellan covered himself with the sheets and hung his legs from the side of the bed.

_You may not want me in the morning._

"No.."

The mage was quick, already making his way down the stairs, although he was shirtless. "What is it, Inquisitor?"

_Inquisitor. Sad drunk._

"I'm so drunk, please. Stay."

Nothing else to say. What is there? "Still drunk?"

"Stay."

There was so much silence. Dorian wasn't sure there was any other presence like it.

Lavellan, the sad drunk, shook his head. "Wh..What, do you think you fucked me sober?" _Too drunk, Sarrahel. Too vulgar. Too drunk._ "I'm so wasted, Dorian. Mythal's grace. Come back to bed."

Hazel eyes shifted from the stairway to the bed, then back to the stairway. He blinked and took a half-step forward and paused again. He smacked his lips and looked down at the floor. An exhale. Then, a soft, careful mumble. "Alright."

**Author's Note:**

> DAMN, back at it again with the cheesy ending
> 
> screw canon, the amulet wasn't the thing that sparked sex in this one  
> because i'm trash.
> 
> there might be typos because i'm too lazy to re read this for like the 1000th time lmao


End file.
